I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a

First, London, for its myriads; for its height, Manhattan heaped in towering stalagmite; But Paris for the smoothness of the paths That lead the

In that fair capital where Pleasure, crowned Amidst her myriad courtiers, riots and rules, I too have been a suitor. Radiant eyes Were my life\'s

The rooks aclamor when one enters here Startle the empty towers far overhead; Through gaping walls the summer fields appear, Green, tan, or,

O happiness, I know not what far seas, Blue hills and deep, thy sunny realms surround, That thus in Music\'s wistful harmonies And concert of

Deep in the sloping forest that surrounds The head of a green valley that I know, Spread the fair gardens and ancestral grounds Of Bellinglise,

Broceliande! in the perilous beauty of silence and menacing shade, Thou art set on the shores of the sea down the haze of horizons untravelled,

In the glad revels, in the happy fetes, When cheeks are flushed, and glasses gilt and pearled With the sweet wine of France that concentrates The

At dusk, when lowlands where dark waters glide Robe in gray mist, and through the greening hills The hoot-owl calls his mate, and

The lad I was I longer now Nor am nor shall be evermore. Spring\'s lovely blossoms from my brow Have shed their petals on the floor. Thou, Love,

You have the grit and the guts, I know; You are ready to answer blow for blow You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, But your honor ends with

Stretched on a sunny bank he lay at rest, Ferns at his elbow, lilies round his knees, With sweet flesh patterned where the cool turf

Sonnet I Down the strait vistas where a city street Fades in pale dust and vaporous distances, Stained with far fumes the light grows less and

Sonnet I Sidney, in whom the heyday of romance Came to its precious and most perfect flower, Whether you tourneyed with victorious lance Or brought

All that\'s not love is the dearth of my days, The leaves of the volume with rubric unwrit, The temple in times without prayer, without

I know a village in a far-off land Where from a sunny, mountain-girdled plain With tinted walls a space on either hand And fed by many an

I stood beside his sepulchre whose fame, Hurled over Europe once on bolt and blast, Now glows far off as storm-clouds overpast Glow in the sunset

A cloud has lowered that shall not soon pass o\'er. The world takes sides: whether for impious aims With Tyranny whose bloody toll enflames A

Do you remember once, in Paris of glad faces, The night we wandered off under the third moon\'s rays And, leaving far behind bright streets and

Ruggiero, to amaze the British host, And wake more wonder in their wondering ranks, The bridle of his winged courser loosed, And clapped his spurs